


The Future is Being Made Today

by seaholly



Series: Guiding Hand [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Cuddling, Discipline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2030886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/pseuds/seaholly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is determined that Sherlock will be cuddled. Sherlock is adjusting to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Future is Being Made Today

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on directly from The Science of Miscalculation.
> 
> I’ve put all the spanking tags on for the series in general, but there’s no spanking in this chapter. Just lots and lots of cuddling.

 

By the time John woke up from his nap (or more accurately, Sherlock woke up from his, and John woke up when he moved) it was well past time for dinner.

Sherlock’s bedside clock told him this first, but John’s stomach was quick to confirm it. That nap had been very nice, especially after such a stressful day, and even more especially with a cuddly Sherlock snuggled up against him. But now that John was awake again, it really was most definitely time to find some food.

Of course, before he could do that he’d have to disentangle himself from Sherlock. Sherlock was awake, but he’d moved only far enough to stretch (which had been what woke John up) before determinedly snuggling himself back into John’s side. His curly head was now tucked back in against John’s shoulder, and his bottom half was wrapped up snugly in his contingency-planning blanket (which really was absurdly soft and John didn’t even want to know how much it had cost). His arm was draped over John’s middle and his dress shirt had, from what John could see, been creased into hopeless wrinkles that were going to require copious ironing to sort out.

And as far as John could tell (his view of Sherlock’s face being somewhat obscured), he seemed to be completely blissful.

John couldn’t help but smile at the picture he made. It still amazed him to see Sherlock – Mr Cold and Superior himself – being so openly cuddly, and the sheer novelty of it was nowhere near wearing off yet.

But then, John thought, Sherlock wasn’t actually Mr Cold and Superior, not really. That was the whole point, and also what was at the heart of the disastrous week they’d just had. Sherlock played at being cold and superior, yes. He played at it very well indeed. Until that first spanking, John had had no idea just how much of a front it really was. But now he did, because Sherlock had trusted him enough to let him see behind it. And what John saw, what Sherlock had allowed him to see, was a man who had been lonely all his life, and who had been so consistently rejected that he had buried his unanswered need for affection beneath a pretence – a defence – of being cold and aloof and utterly untouchable.

Until John had come along, and had smashed down all of Sherlock’s carefully cultivated walls with an angry, impulsive action that he now suspected might be one of the most important things he’d ever done.

If only he’d known at the time, John thought wryly. Not that he’d have done anything differently if he had.

But he’d done what he’d done, and what he had on his hands now was a cuddly, needy Sherlock who was trying to make up for years – decades – of being isolated and touch-starved. And while it had been a bit of a minefield to get there, Sherlock had ultimately been willing to let John see that, to let him know it and to trust him enough to allow him, in turn, to provide the affection that Sherlock craved.

All in all, to be trusted like that was pretty bloody humbling, really.

But that was fine. It was all fine. Now that John had seen, now that he understood and they had got it sorted out, it was all going to be fine. He was going to live up to what he’d promised Sherlock, every word of it, and Sherlock was going to get all the cuddling he could ever need or want. John would make sure of it.

And in keeping with that, of course he wasn’t actually going to make Sherlock give up his current comfortable position if he really wasn’t ready to yet. He had promised as much cuddle time as Sherlock wanted after punishments, after all. And after the day they’d had, he could quite understand why Sherlock might want to cling to the comfort.

But all that said, if Sherlock was at all amenable to getting up, then John really wouldn’t mind some dinner. And he also wouldn’t mind getting Sherlock fed as well as himself, because with all the excitement today, he had no idea whether Sherlock had eaten anything at all.

Sherlock, of course – even well-cuddled and still a bit sleepy, by the sound of him – had already deduced John’s intentions.

“I’m not ready yet,” he mumbled, pressing himself closer to John and clutching him a bit more tightly.

John patted him in reassurance, automatically soothing. “That’s all right,” he said mildly. “Cuddle time isn’t over until you’re ready.” He took up rubbing Sherlock’s back, until the clinging hold had loosened a little. Once it had, he added gently, “But remember, you can have it whenever you want now. This isn’t the end of it until the next time you’re in trouble. If you want another cuddle later, you just let me know. Okay?”

Sherlock’s only reply was a nod, but John could feel him relaxing again, the sudden tension in his narrow frame releasing. Apparently the reminder (or perhaps the confirmation) had been appreciated.

“Good,” he said, still rubbing Sherlock’s back. And then, since the first reminder had seemed to work so well, he decided to offer another one for good measure. “And you’ll be getting a cuddle at bedtime anyway, unless you tell me you don’t want one.”

Because of course that was the other new addition to their arrangement: not just cuddles on tap, but bedtime cuddles as part of their routine. And if John had already gone to bed, then Sherlock was going to get his cuddle by coming upstairs and climbing into bed with him.

Most unorthodox flatshare in the world, John thought, in an amused echo of his own words from earlier.

He felt entirely contented about it.

Sherlock had nodded again in agreement with the cuddle at bedtime, and then nuzzled his face against John’s shoulder in what John took to be a thank you. John gave him an affectionate squeeze in return, smiling fondly down at the top of Sherlock’s head.

“But that’s for later,” he went on, returning to his original purpose. “For now, how about this as a proposal? Once you’ve had enough of a cuddle for the moment, we’ll get up, and I’ll make us some tea and order us some takeaway. And then after we’ve had dinner you can lie down and I’ll do some doctoring on you with the arnica cream. I think you could probably use some, yeah?”

He was pretty sure that Sherlock could. Most of his punishments during this last week had been very mild and not enough to leave him sore, but in typically dramatic Sherlock style, he’d also ended things by being spanked, and properly so, three times in two days. John had applied some arnica cream last night, after the first one, but Sherlock had still complained about already being sore for both of the ones he’d earned today, and while it had been mostly protest for protest’s sake, John didn’t doubt that it was also the truth. Taken individually, none of the punishments had been really severe, but even so John could well imagine that the cumulative effect had been damn uncomfortable.

So: doctoring with arnica cream was definitely on the agenda.

Sherlock seemed to agree, if his emphatic nodding was anything to go by. “I’m sore,” he confirmed, although he still sounded too drowsy and content to be really pouty about it.

John patted him in consolation anyway. “I’ll bet,” he said. “But the cream will help, and it’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Sherlock gave a soft hum of acknowledgement, adding weight to John’s theory that he was neither all that sore nor all that concerned about it, at least not right now. He snuggled a bit closer, pressing himself more tightly against John’s side. “I’d like some tea,” he said hopefully.

John took that to mean that Sherlock found the rest of his plan acceptable, too. “When you’re ready to get up, I’ll make some,” he promised. He’d be all too happy to make some, actually; he could really use a cup of tea himself.

Sherlock shifted against him and made a soft sound of mild complaint, which after a moment John interpreted as being frustration over having to decide which one he wanted more: tea or continued cuddling. He was just about to open his mouth to remind Sherlock again that he could have more cuddling after the tea, if he so desired, when Sherlock apparently settled on a decision.

“Five more minutes,” he said, burrowing more firmly into John’s embrace. “Then tea.”

John smiled to himself at the peremptory tone (which was really just Sherlock’s usual tone) and cuddled him a bit closer in return. “When you’re ready,” he assured Sherlock, and then for good measure he went ahead with his intended reassurance. “And you can have another cuddle after we’ve had tea if you want. There’s no shortage.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, and just like that he had gone from imperious to sounding shyly pleased. “No shortage.” He nuzzled his cheek against John’s shoulder again.

“None at all,” John said comfortably, and settled back to enjoy another five minutes of cuddling.

It ended up being more like ten minutes, and even then it seemed that Sherlock was very reluctant to move. However, the promise of tea was apparently too tempting to pass up any longer, because move he finally did, lifting his head and then wriggling backwards so that he could prop himself up on one elbow.

“Tea?” he asked, fixing a hopeful, slightly red-rimmed gaze on John.

John gave him a fond look in return. “I’ll go and make some,” he said indulgently, pushing himself up to sit. “Just let me use the loo first and then I’ll put the kettle on.”

Sherlock looked mollified, so this proposal appeared to be tolerable. John slid off the bed and ducked into the ensuite, leaving Sherlock to extract himself from his blanket nest in his own time. Or, if he decided that he wasn’t going to extract himself just yet, John would bring the tea to him. He was feeling quite affectionate enough not to mind waiting on Sherlock a bit, especially after everything they’d been through today – and for that matter, everything they’d been through this whole last week. Poor Sherlock had been on an emotional rollercoaster for days, and John thought he could probably more than use a bit of gentle looking after.

As it was, though, Sherlock managed to arrive in the kitchen just as John had the tea ready. He was tousle-haired and he still looked a bit sleepy, and he’d discarded his hopelessly wrinkled shirt in favour of pyjamas and dressing gown. He was also rubbing one obviously tender flank and looking rather mournful about it, but he brightened immediately when John handed off a just prepared cup.

“Thank you,” he said, and gave John another of those shy little smiles. It was still more than a little odd, seeing Sherlock actually look _shy_ , but that didn’t stop John from finding it incredibly endearing.

“You’re welcome,” he said, returning the smile. “What would you like for dinner? And not a word of argument,” he added with mock severity. “You don’t have a case on, and you are eating dinner.”

The warning had been far more on the playful side than truly serious, but Sherlock nodded solemnly anyway. “I’ll eat dinner,” he agreed.

“Good,” John said with a nod of approval. “So, any preferences?”

Sherlock considered for a moment. “Chinese?”

“Fine by me.” John wouldn’t mind Chinese either, and the one they usually ordered from was quick with delivery, too.

After a bit more deliberation about exactly what they both wanted in the way of Chinese, John rang to make the order and then gratefully made for the living room with his tea, settling into his chair with a sigh. Sherlock followed him in but hovered instead of sitting, and John looked up to find him gazing at the sofa with narrowed eyes.

Guessing at the cause, he asked with brisk sympathy, “Sore?”

Sherlock nodded dolefully, and as if to emphasise the point, one hand crept back behind him to gingerly rub.

“Just lie down, then,” John suggested, wondering why Sherlock was hesitating to do just that. “Keep the weight off it until we can get some arnica on you.”

It seemed like an obvious solution to him, and it certainly wasn’t as though Sherlock hadn’t done it before, when he was sore enough not to fancy sitting down. But Sherlock made no move towards the sofa, and he didn’t look any happier for John’s encouragement. Instead John thought he appeared almost frustrated.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. A possibility occurred to him before Sherlock could answer, and he hastened to add, “You know I won’t make fun of you. I know it’s sore.”

“No,” Sherlock protested at once, shaking his head. “I didn’t think that. I just …”

His voice trailed off and he bit his lip, trying to scowl at the same time. John thought it made him look as though he was stuck halfway between anxious and aggravated.

“What?” he asked. “Sherlock, just tell me.”

Sherlock’s response to that was a pleading look, as if John’s request was something he desperately wanted to avoid. John tried to make sense of that, gamely attempting to observe and to apply some deductive logic.

All right, he thought. Whatever it was, Sherlock obviously didn’t want to ‘just tell him’ about it. He seemed to want to sit down, or at least to lie down since sitting was uncomfortable, and he’d just said that he wasn’t worried about being made fun of for it. But he still wasn’t doing it; instead he was just hovering about as if he was waiting for something. And despite the fact that he appeared to be frustrated over not having it, he still didn’t want to tell John what it was. So …?

Oh.

In another lightbulb moment – although more of a twenty watt version this time than the glowing conflagration of earlier – John suddenly got it. Or at least he was pretty damn sure that he’d got it.

Only one way to find out, he thought. He made sure to keep his voice casual, despite knowing that Sherlock had probably deduced exactly what he’d been thinking even as he thought it.

“Would you like me to come and sit with you?” he asked, adding easily, “I can give you a bit of a cuddle while we’re waiting for dinner.”

Sherlock’s cheeks had gone very pink, and he didn’t seem to be quite able to look John in the eye, shooting him only a quick glance before hastily averting his gaze. He did, however, nod silently in confirmation.

John wasn’t surprised; he _had_ been pretty damn sure. It shouldn’t have even taken him as long as it did to work it out, really. He’d seen how reluctant Sherlock had been to give up his cuddle, and he’d already suspected that Sherlock would probably be feeling insecure for a while, after everything that had happened today. It only made sense that he’d want to stay physically close.

And he was glad too that Sherlock had been willing to confirm it. Of course, it would have been even better if Sherlock had been able to use his code phrase to ask rather than John having to guess, but then John wasn’t expecting miracles, especially not so soon. The cuddle code was a very new development, and Sherlock had already warned him that he would probably find it difficult. He’d promised he’d try, and within reason, John would give him the space to try in his own time.

And for now, he’d just have to keep a very close eye on Sherlock and be prepared to step in with cuddles when it seemed they might be needed.

Clearly they were needed now. And that was fine; John was more than happy to share the sofa with a cuddly Sherlock. Not to mention, it would be a good start in reinforcing to Sherlock that he really could have the cuddles without the punishment first.

“Right then,” John said, determined to keep on being casual about it. This was for Sherlock’s benefit, because he was obviously embarrassed, but also because if they were going to make a regular habit of this (which they were) then John thought that really it ought to be a casual thing. Of course all of their cuddles so far had been post-punishment cuddles, so most of them had come with a fair amount of drama mixed in. But a cuddle didn’t have to be dramatic. In fact, now that they were going to be having cuddles-just-because, John rather hoped that most of them wouldn’t be.

He also hoped that once Sherlock understood this, he might even start to feel a bit more comfortable about the idea of asking for them.

John got up – casually – from his chair, and transferred his tea to the coffee table. He then sat down at one end of the sofa and patted the space beside him in invitation. “Come on.”

Sherlock was still blushing, but the look he threw John was nakedly grateful underneath the discomfiture. John only got a quick glimpse of it before Sherlock turned his face away again, but it was more than enough to convince him that he’d done the right thing.

Despite his admitted desire for John to do exactly what he was doing, though, Sherlock still hesitated before actually coming any closer. John waited without further comment, letting him do it in his own time, and was rewarded when, after a pause, Sherlock finally edged over towards him.

Sherlock set his tea down on the coffee table beside John’s, and then very gingerly propped a knee up onto the sofa, casting another swift and cautious glance at John’s face as he did so. Whatever he saw apparently reassured him, though, because after another minute hesitation he carefully lowered himself down, stretching out along the length of the sofa with his feet up on the arm, and his head – adorably – coming to rest on John’s lap.

John could feel himself smiling, even as he let his hands drop into appropriately cuddly positions, one coming to rest in Sherlock’s curls and the other in between his shoulder blades. His smile only widened when Sherlock made a soft, pleased sound at the contact and squirmed as if he was trying to snuggle closer.

“Shhh,” John soothed. He smoothed a hand over Sherlock’s hair, eliciting another happy sound from him. “That’s it. Just relax.”

After another little squirm, Sherlock did, the tension leaving him with a low, contented sigh. Or at least, it sounded contented to John. Admittedly he couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, because Sherlock had turned his head to face out rather than inwards, but at this point John was pretty sure that he knew a happy Sherlock when he heard one.

Looking down at him, John was suddenly reminded again of that very first spanking, and of how he had comforted Sherlock afterwards, just like this. It had been a substitute for a proper cuddle, that time, but then at the time John hadn’t even known if Sherlock would accept a proper cuddle; he’d been surprised enough that Sherlock had let him comfort him at all. Little had he known then just how starved Sherlock had been of any sort of physical affection, or how desperately he needed it.

But he knew now, he reminded himself. He knew now, thank Christ, and he could do something about it, and it was all going to be fine. Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to lack for cuddles anymore, not if John had anything to say about it.

He began to rub Sherlock’s back, making the motion a slow, soothing back and forth. Sherlock hummed in immediate pleasure and wriggled again, inching up the sofa as he tried to cuddle still closer.

It made John’s heart melt more than just a bit, and he thought it was probably a good thing that Sherlock couldn’t see his face either, because he suspected that his expression had just become unbearably soppy. Although being Sherlock he could probably deduce it anyway, even without being able to see John’s face. If he had, though, it certainly didn’t seem to be troubling him.

But looking at Sherlock now, and seeing his reactions, John could only think that really, it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to use his cuddle code this time. Even leaving aside the sheer newness and unfamiliarity of it, it seemed pretty plain to him that Sherlock was still feeling vulnerable. And that definitely wasn’t surprising, given that he’d not only endured two spankings today (and one yesterday) but also an unprecedented level of emotional upheaval. Emotions could be a tricky business for Sherlock at the best of times, and this day – this whole past week, in fact – had certainly not been the best of times.

But it was all fixed now, John told himself yet again. Or at least it was in the process of being fixed. And if Sherlock was still recovering in the immediate aftermath, well, then that was all the more reason for John to do some proper caretaking of him.

“You’re just going to let me look after you tonight,” he told Sherlock, echoing that sentiment out loud. He spoke gently but with an undertone that brooked no disagreement; he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “And maybe tomorrow, too, I think,” he added. “You’ve had a very hard week and I think you could use it. Okay?”

If he’d been expecting a protest, he didn’t get one. Sherlock gave another soft sigh, not sounding unhappy in the slightest, and murmured an obedient, “Okay,” before falling silent again.

“Good,” John said in satisfaction. And then, fondly: “That’s my good Sherlock.”

He couldn’t see it, but he was pretty sure he felt Sherlock smile.

And it set the tone nicely for the next twenty minutes, while they waited for the food to arrive. (Or at least John waited for the food to arrive. Sherlock might well not have particularly cared. Lack of enthusiasm was not going to get him out of eating dinner, however).

But with time to spare before dinner, John made good use of it by getting in some more Sherlock-caretaking. Since Sherlock seemed peaceful he didn’t do much talking, but he rubbed Sherlock’s back and he stroked his hair, trying to make his touch as gentle and soothing as possible, and Sherlock lay with his head in John’s lap and practically purred under the attention. He was mostly quiet, but occasionally he would squirm as if he was unable to stay still and sigh softly in obvious enjoyment. John found it frankly adorable to witness, and he was deeply touched that Sherlock’s wriggling always, without fail, brought him closer, so that by the time the food did arrive he’d squirmed most of his upper body into John’s lap as well.

John didn’t mind this one bit, and was in fact rather disappointed that he’d now have to move to go and answer the door. Sherlock didn’t seem pleased by the prospect either. When the doorbell rang he made a sound of vague irritation, and actually clutched at John’s leg with one hand as if to try to stop him from getting up.

“Sherlock,” John protested, half-laughing. “I have to get up and get the door.”

In response, Sherlock only held on tighter and whined a protest of his own. “I don’t want to move.”

“I don’t either,” John told him fondly. “But I’ve still got to get the door.” He patted Sherlock’s shoulder in gentle encouragement. “Come on, let go. We can do this again after dinner if you like.”

He’d been hoping that would mollify Sherlock, but it didn’t seem to work. Sherlock not only hung on, but pressed himself down onto John’s lap like a weight, clearly trying to pin John to the sofa. “No,” he said petulantly. “Let Mrs Hudson get it.”

“Sherlock, we shouldn’t –” John began automatically, because in normal circumstances he’d have scolded that they shouldn’t make Mrs Hudson run around after them (although it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d let her do it, either). But then he stopped, as it belatedly occurred to him that these weren’t actually normal circumstances.

“Sherlock,” he repeated, more carefully this time. “If Mrs Hudson gets it, then she’s going to bring the food up to us.” _And she’ll see us like this_ , was the unspoken implication.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, still doggedly holding on. Then he huffed. “Let her,” he said loftily. A beat, and then he added in a tone that was suddenly softer, almost shy: “You look after me. She knows that.”

It wasn’t what John had expected to hear, and he blinked in vague surprise. What Sherlock had just said, basically, was that he didn’t _mind_ if Mrs Hudson saw them like this, and that was … interesting, John thought bemusedly.

Interesting, yes indeed. Sherlock didn’t mind. He’d rather stay in John’s lap and let Mrs Hudson see it than move. John wasn’t entirely sure what that said, but he was sure it said something.

But then, he reasoned, it _was_ only Mrs Hudson. And she did, as Sherlock had said, already know that John looked after him. She even knew some of the specifics about just how John looked after him, and despite Sherlock’s initial prickliness about her having overheard them that first time, he’d got over it very quickly.

And speaking of that first time, Mrs Hudson had even seen them like this before – in this exact same position, in fact, although they’d both been fast asleep at the time. She hadn’t cared, not beyond covering them up in case they got cold. John had been briefly embarrassed but had quickly decided that he’d rather her than anyone else. Sherlock had agreed on that score, and he obviously wasn’t troubled now. So, given all that, did it really matter if she saw them like this again while they were awake?

No, John thought. No, it didn’t, not really. Not to Sherlock, obviously. And not to him either; certainly not enough to make Sherlock move when he so plainly wanted to stay close. It was, after all, just Mrs Hudson. And if Sherlock didn’t mind … well, now that John was actually thinking about it, neither did he.

John thought through all of that rather quickly, and came to the swift conclusion that that was fine, then. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t mind. He didn’t mind. Sherlock didn’t mind. He was certain that it said something that Sherlock didn’t mind, but he didn’t think it was anything _bad_.

But, the issue of minding and what it said aside, he was also aware that there had been just the faintest hint of a question to Sherlock’s words, a bare note of hesitation that John was sure he wasn’t imagining.

Had he been worried that John _would_ mind? Was it lingering insecurity over the unfamiliarity of getting cuddles whenever he wanted them, or indeed the whole issue of John looking after him in the first place?

Without much time to think about it, John responded to it instinctively, either way.

“Yeah, I do look after you,” he said, his own voice softening to match Sherlock’s. “And yeah, I suppose she does know that. All right, then.”

He relaxed back onto the sofa, feeling ever so slightly guilty about ignoring the door, but grateful nonetheless to have the excuse to stay put. Sherlock cautiously relaxed too, although he maintained his hold on John’s leg, as if he was wary that John might change his mind.

“I’m not going anywhere,” John told him, then amended, “Well, not right now. We are going to have to move to eat, though.”

“No,” Sherlock replied stubbornly.

John eyed him with barely checked amusement. “You can’t eat with your head in my lap.”

“I can.”

Christ, John thought wryly. Apparently there was going to be no shifting him until he wanted to shift. Well, all right then. He’d been thinking that Sherlock needed some proper looking after tonight, and if staying in John’s lap was what he wanted, then John was quite willing to oblige him. There were certainly worse positions to be trapped in; it wasn’t as though he was suffering, after all.

“Fine,” he said drily. “But if you choke, I’m going to be very unhappy with you.”

Sherlock’s response was a snort of disdain, and a tightening of his grip on John’s leg as the doorbell rang again.

This time John heard footsteps downstairs – Mrs Hudson had apparently decided that they were taking too long to answer it.

“We really shouldn’t make her run round after us,” he said, his reproving tone directed at himself as much as at Sherlock.

“She’s closer,” Sherlock grumbled, and inched forward a little on John’s lap as if to claim possession of it.

John patted him in automatic reassurance, trying to let him know that his claim was perfectly safe. “Even so,” he said, making a mental note to do something nice for Mrs Hudson when he next had the opportunity. She really was good to them; he ought to do nice things for her more often, really.

“She doesn’t mind anyway,” Sherlock informed him, with the air of someone who was trying to justify his position.

John had the feeling that was actually true. Mrs Hudson might grumble about it sometimes, and she absolutely got exasperated with Sherlock’s antics, but John knew she loved him; she certainly had far more tolerance for him than anyone would who was merely a landlady (and if she had been merely a landlady, John was pretty sure they’d both have been out on the street by now). She liked mothering him, and she liked that he let her do it.

“Because she looks after you too,” he remarked thoughtfully. He supposed they made a bit of a team, really. The looking-after-Sherlock team. Which, now that he thought about it, probably included Lestrade and, God help him, Mycroft.

Sherlock appeared to consider that for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

John patted him again, fondly, and made absolutely no mention of his theory about the looking-after-Sherlock team (especially the Mycroft part). “Even so,” he said instead, getting back to his original topic. “We shouldn’t take advantage.”

“Buy her freesias,” Sherlock said, having apparently already deduced John’s do-something-nice intentions, even without being able to see him. “She likes those.”

John chuckled. He’d never deny that sometimes it was irritating to be so transparent, but right now it was just amusing. “Good to know,” he said wryly.

“Yellow ones,” Sherlock told him, and squirmed himself a little further over John’s lap, just as the soft tread of footsteps sounded on the stairs.

A light tap on the door was followed by Mrs Hudson’s entrance, takeaway bag in hand. “Boys, your food’s here,” she began, and then she caught sight of them. “Oh.”

It was quite an expressive ‘oh’, John thought. Not surprised, but … well, _doting_ was probably the most accurate description. She’d said ‘oh’, but John had the feeling that what she really meant was ‘aw’.

He felt his cheeks warm, but he still couldn’t bring himself to mind, or even to really be embarrassed. Not when Sherlock – touch-starved Sherlock, who John knew was feeling insecure about the very idea of cuddles-just-because – didn’t appear to be bothered at all by being seen snuggled half in John’s lap. Even if it was only Mrs Hudson doing the seeing, John was sure it had to be a positive sign.

“Sorry,” he said automatically, although he only meant for the door, not for having Sherlock in his lap. “He’s had a hard day.”

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Sherlock said, haughty. A beat, and then he turned his head just slightly in Mrs Hudson’s direction and added in the same lofty tone, “I’ve had a hard day.”

John grinned, and he and Mrs Hudson exchanged an amused look over Sherlock’s head. Hers was quickly replaced, though, by an expression of indulgent softness as she gazed down at Sherlock, and John found himself ducking his head – not out of embarrassment, but from fellow feeling.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got John here to look after you, then, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson said to Sherlock.

There was a momentary pause, and then Sherlock seemed to almost imperceptibly relax, some barely there tension easing out of him. “Yes,” he replied simply, and then said no more. John had the sudden impression – although he couldn’t see it – that Sherlock had just closed his eyes.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, and it was such an obviously pleased smile that he was left in no doubt whatsoever about her approval. “Your takeaway’s here,” she said, and put the bag she was holding down on the coffee table. And then, after another glance at them: “You two stay there and I’ll get you some plates.”

“You don’t have to –” John began, but she was already heading for the kitchen, and Sherlock’s hand had immediately tightened on his leg again. “All right, I’m not getting up,” he said wryly. Louder, and in Mrs Hudson’s direction, he called out a not-quite-sheepish, “Thank you!”

She was back in a few moments with plates and cutlery, which she set on the coffee table beside the food. “You sit up to eat, Sherlock, or you’ll choke,” she told him fondly.

Sherlock responded to that just as he had when John had brought it up: with a disdainful snort. John rolled his eyes, and changed the subject by pointing over to his jacket. “Sorry you had to pay; my wallet’s in my pocket.”

“That’s all right, love, we can sort it out later,” Mrs Hudson said. “I’ll leave you to it. You make sure he goes to bed early, though. A good night’s sleep will do wonders, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a sound of vague acquiescence that John recognised as his ‘I’m making a noise at you because I’m aware that you’re talking but I’m basically ignoring you’ response. He couldn’t resist another eye roll, but Mrs Hudson seemed unperturbed by it, and merely cast another doting look over both of them before breezing back out the door.

“You really will have to sit up to eat, you know,” John told Sherlock. The grip on his leg tightened again, warningly.

“No, I won’t,” was the firm reply.

John couldn’t help laughing, and he patted Sherlock in reassurance until the death grip on his leg had loosened once more. If Sherlock was really set on it – and it certainly seemed that he was – then John wasn’t going to refuse him. Having Sherlock in his lap while they both tried to eat was going to be awkward to say the least, but after all, what he’d told Mrs Hudson was entirely true: Sherlock _had_ had a hard day, and a hard week, and he was making it very clear indeed that he wanted to stay close. An awkward meal, John thought, was a small price to pay to give him that.

Even if Sherlock was, at least in part, insisting on it just to be stubborn.

As it turned out, though, Sherlock was right: he didn’t have to sit up to eat. It took some manoeuvring – John had to move more into the middle of the sofa, and Sherlock had to squirm further over his lap so that he could prop himself up on his elbows, and it was something of a battle to actually get the food dished up at all when Sherlock refused to be out of contact with him – but despite all that, they did finally manage to make it work. All right, Sherlock was eating off a plate on the sofa and John had his balanced on a cushion on Sherlock’s back, but they did both have plates. John had even managed to get hold of the remote so that he could turn the telly on.

As meals went, it was probably one of the more absurd that John had experienced. However, the silliness of their positions didn’t detract at all from the warm feeling he got whenever he thought about Sherlock’s determination to stay close to him. It really was a very nice feeling indeed, especially coming after such a stressful day.

And as well as being generally nice, it also made him feel as though things _were_ getting sorted out, as though they _had_ made progress in fixing what was wrong. Yes, it was still very early days, and Sherlock was mercurial as hell at the best of times and might go right back to being leery of wanting cuddles tomorrow. But for now, he wanted John’s affection and touch, and he was prepared to admit it and what’s more he was getting it, and it felt – to John, at least – like a damn good start.

Sherlock even ate a decent amount of his dinner without John prodding him, which John cheerfully chalked up as another win.

By the time they’d both finished eating – and had managed, with some wriggling, to stack the plates up on the table – John was full and pleasantly relaxed, and was finding the warm weight of Sherlock in his lap to be surprisingly comfortable. The sofa cushions were forgiving enough that Sherlock didn’t seem too heavy, and it was just _nice_ , this easy closeness.

John wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed cuddling Sherlock after his punishments: it was good to feel so needed, to be the one Sherlock turned to for comfort and to be able to provide it for him. But this – having the closeness without the fraught beginning – this was just _nice_.

All right, it wasn’t quite how he’d imagined them ever having dinner together when he’d first moved in, but then that was true of a lot of things, lately. Their relationship had fundamentally changed the moment John had lost his temper and dragged Sherlock over his knee that first time. And what was done was done, but the fact was that he wouldn’t take it back for anything, even if he’d known what it would lead to. Because what it had led to was _good_.

Unorthodox? Oh God, yes. But good.

And right now it was good enough that John, comforted as he was by a full stomach and a soft sofa and a warm Sherlock, was starting to feel more than a bit sleepy. He suspected that it might be having the same effect on Sherlock, too, because his curly head had drooped right down onto the sofa cushion and he seemed heavier now, his weight settling onto John more fully as his body relaxed.

Of course it was hardly surprising that Sherlock was tired, after a keyed up, overwrought and largely sleepless week – not to mention the madhouse that today had been. John might have been tempted to just let him fall asleep, if it hadn’t been for the fact that they’d done that once before and neither of them had woken up particularly comfortable, even with Mrs Hudson’s addition of a blanket.

Not to mention, he’d also promised Sherlock some doctoring (if the application of arnica cream to a sore bum could really be called doctoring) before he went to bed. Although now that he was thinking of doctoring, the burns on Sherlock’s arm could probably use another look as well. If Sherlock wanted a shower, and he probably would, then he’d have to take the bandage off anyway, so John might as well get all the doctoring done in one go. Not that he was actually expecting any problems there; the burns hadn’t been severe. But even so, he’d feel better if he checked them.

But with all that in mind, John thought it really would be better to get Sherlock up and actually into bed, where the doctoring could be done and Sherlock could then get a decent night’s sleep.

A decent night’s sleep after a proper bedtime cuddle, of course, John amended to himself. If they were making it a routine, then he was bloody well going to start as he meant to go on.

Once again, though, despite an appearance that suggested he was rapidly on his way to being half asleep (if not wholly asleep), Sherlock had anticipated him.

“I don’t want to get up,” he mumbled, groping for John’s leg again and holding on. “I’m comfortable.”

John grinned; he couldn’t help it. “So am I,” he said, patting Sherlock’s back consolingly. “But we won’t be for much longer if we stay here. You’ll sleep much better if you’re in bed.”

In response to this, Sherlock voiced a petulant sounding whine that left John in no doubt about his opinion on potentially having to move.

“I know,” John said, with genuine sympathy. “This is nice; I like it too. But – if you can get up just long enough to get yourself ready for bed, then I can put some arnica cream on you to make you more comfortable, and give you a proper bedtime cuddle before you go to sleep. Start as we mean to go on. What do you say?”

There was a pause, as (John assumed) Sherlock considered this. When he spoke again, he sounded both more awake and suddenly more cautious, an audible note of hesitation creeping into his voice.

“You don’t mind?”

And there was the insecurity again, John thought, rearing its ugly head. Well, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t known it was there; he’d seen ample evidence of it already.

He didn’t waste any time asking which one Sherlock had meant he might mind; the answer was exactly the same, after all.

“No, and no,” he said firmly, to cover off both options. “If I’m going to punish you, then I get to look after you when it’s over, too. We agreed. And we agreed that bedtime cuddles are going to be a routine from now on. Right?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, although he kept his head well tucked down. “Yes,” he replied after a moment – quietly, but with more confidence this time.

“There you are, then,” John told him, as if that should settle it (and as far as he was concerned, it should). “So, what do you say?”

Apparently reassured, Sherlock gave the matter another moment or two of silent consideration before releasing a dramatic, put upon sigh. “Okay,” he grudgingly allowed.

“Okay,” John echoed, and then briskly continued, giving Sherlock another encouraging pat. “Come on, then. Up you get and you can go and get ready for bed. Did you want to have a shower first?”

There was yet another pause for deliberation, and then another weary sigh from Sherlock. “Yes,” he admitted, sounding very unenthusiastic indeed about the prospect of yet more effort before he could go to bed.

John sympathised entirely, but if Sherlock wanted a shower (which was understandable after a day that had included two spankings and a jaunt to the top of a crane) then he’d feel better for having had one. And having one _after_ John had been at him with the arnica cream would just defeat the whole purpose.

“Okay,” John repeated. “Off you go and get in the shower then, and I’ll tidy up in here.”

Sherlock groaned in protest, but after a moment or two he did begin to move, albeit with grudging reluctance. He slid off the sofa onto his knees (reminding John once again of that first spanking, when he’d done the same thing) and then got his feet under him with theatrical effort, straightening up slowly and reaching back to gingerly rub his bottom. Mournful grey eyes fixed themselves on John in silent reproach, and John found himself having to work hard not to smile.

“I know it’s sore,” he said instead, pushing himself unwillingly (although less dramatically) to stand. He pulled Sherlock into a quick hug, and was pleased when Sherlock easily allowed it, ducking his curly head down to touch John’s.

“It’ll feel better after a shower and some arnica cream,” John told him, rubbing his back comfortingly. “You’ll see.”

“I know it will,” Sherlock retorted, sounding half comforted and half sullen. “But it hurts _now_.”

“All the more reason to go and get in the shower, then,” John said wryly. “The sooner you’re finished, the sooner I can start doctoring you.”

He gave Sherlock’s back a last fond rub and then released him. Sherlock took the hint and stepped back, although it was accompanied by a sad sigh and another downcast look.

“More cuddles later,” John reminded him. “For bedtime, and whenever else you want too. Right?”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned slightly pink at the reminder, but he looked pleased, his gaze lifting to meet John’s with that same uncharacteristic (but extremely endearing) shyness.

“Yes,” he agreed. And then, as if to compensate for being so obviously reassured, he squared his shoulders and gave John a sharp, almost formal nod, before turning on his heel and heading for the shower without another word.

John watched him go, fondness warring with amusement as Sherlock’s parade ground-straight back disappeared around the corner. Sherlock’s mercurial mood swings could be bewildering – and bloody annoying at times, too. But after all the emotional upheaval of the day, and the past week, not to mention the insecurity that John knew was still very much present, he could quite understand Sherlock being a bit up and down emotionally.

And that was fine. John was going to look after him – with especial care for the next little while, too – and hopefully, Sherlock would soon start to realise and trust that John (and the cuddles) were here to stay. And, what was more, that it was perfectly all right for him to want that.

And if it took Sherlock a while to get to that point – well, that was fine too. It wasn’t as though John didn’t understand trust issues, and he was quite prepared to be patient. And in the meantime, Sherlock was going to get all the cuddling that he’d been missing out on for so long.

Including bedtime cuddles. Starting as of tonight.

Determined on that point, not that he thought he’d actually get any objections from Sherlock, John dutifully made use of the time while Sherlock was in the shower to tidy up what was left of dinner. He did blink when he opened the fridge and found himself staring at a plate full of cleanly severed toes (nine of them. Where the hell was the tenth?) but then just snorted to himself and let it go. He was hardly going to tell Sherlock off about it now – and honestly, he thought he was getting used to it.

Once he’d finished putting things away – which only took about five minutes, because John was tired enough himself that he wasn’t about to tidy anything he didn’t absolutely have to – he collected the first aid kit from the table where he’d left it, and then headed for Sherlock’s bedroom to wait for him.

He didn’t have to wait long: it seemed Sherlock was doing things in the same vein as John and had taken the most perfunctory shower that he could. John had barely sat down (on Sherlock’s bed, which no longer felt at all like taking liberties after the amount of time he’d spent on it lately) before Sherlock came padding in.

He was back in his pyjamas (minus dressing gown), but his hair was still visibly damp and obviously uncombed, the curls at the back sticking up in corkscrew tendrils while the ones at the front lay in dark commas across his forehead. Combined with the pyjamas it made him look absurdly young, and John couldn’t help the fond grin that formed at the sight of him.

Sherlock replied to it with a haughty look that said he knew exactly what John was thinking.

“I’m going to bed anyway,” he said, and as if to prove the point he crossed to the side of the bed that John wasn’t sitting on and sprawled himself onto it, long limbs stretching easily from one end to the other.

Sprawled face down, John noted, and reached for the arnica cream that had taken up residence on Sherlock’s bedside table.

“Yes, you are,” he said, turning where he sat and pulling his feet up onto the bed with him. “You could do with a good night’s sleep. But doctoring first.”

He was already shuffling closer to Sherlock for easier access when Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow to gaze at him. He looked as tired as he clearly was, but his grey eyes raked over John with their customary laser-like focus.

“You should have a shower too,” he said. “You want one.”

John did, but he’d been planning to hold off until he’d got Sherlock safely settled (and cuddled) into bed. “I’ll have one later,” he said. “It’s fine.”

“Have it now,” Sherlock said shortly. A beat, and then his peremptory tone suddenly gave way to something softer. “I’d … rather you did.”

John grinned at him, wryly. “Too dirty to cuddle with, am I?”

“No,” Sherlock denied at once, almost before John had finished asking the question. “No, I just … I want you to …”

He hesitated, bit his lip, and then dropped his gaze to the duvet cover, his voice dropping with it until it was barely above a murmur. “I want you to be … comfortable,” he said, not meeting John’s eyes. “When we … I’d prefer it. If you were. Comfortable.”

John wasn’t entirely sure why he sounded so awkward about it, but now that he’d said it, it actually sounded like a pretty good idea. He did want a shower before bed; after all, he’d gone through all the same exertions that Sherlock had today, albeit from the other side of things where the spanking was concerned. But he had climbed up a crane, and he had delivered two spankings, and it had all been a bit of a sweaty business. A shower really would be nice, and Sherlock did have a point that it would make for a more comfortable cuddle if he too was showered and pyjama-ed. Not to mention, it would also mean not having to wake himself up again for a shower after the cuddle.

The only thing was that he really had meant to look after Sherlock first, and then see to himself afterwards. He’d promised himself that he was going to take special care of Sherlock tonight (and tonight at the very least; John thought that after all this Sherlock could probably use being coddled for a good few days, if he’d let John do it). If Sherlock preferred to wait, then that was fine, John supposed – but he did want to make sure of that before he took off upstairs and left Sherlock alone.

He also supposed that it was perhaps a bit ridiculous to be quite this concerned about leaving Sherlock (who was, after all, a grown man and a highly independent one) alone for twenty odd minutes while he had a quick shower. But after everything that had happened, not to mention how desperately clingy Sherlock had been tonight, John just couldn’t help it.

Although they had already been separated long enough for Sherlock to have a shower, and that hadn’t seemed to bother him. Yes, okay, taking that into account, John could probably admit that he was overdoing the taking-special-care protectiveness. But damn it, he was feeling protective, and he’d said that he was going to look after Sherlock tonight, and Sherlock had said okay. John would have his shower now if Sherlock preferred it, but he _was_ going to make sure before he went.

And he was going to do it bluntly, too, no matter how ridiculous a question Sherlock might think it was. “Will you be all right by yourself until I come back?”

Sherlock’s head came up again at that, as if in surprise, and then his eyes narrowed, his forehead creasing into a frown that might have been puzzled or annoyed or some combination of the two. After a staring pause his mouth opened, and John had the distinct feeling that he was about to say something rather scathing. But then he shut it again, and his lip suddenly twitched as if he was trying not to laugh.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, in what John suspected were deliberately solemn tones. “You don’t need to worry.”

John might not be the deductive genius that Sherlock was, but he knew when he was being made fun of. However, since he’d just acknowledged to himself that he was being a bit daft, he could admit that he probably had it coming.

He was damned if he was going to apologise for being protective, though. That was what he did now, and besides he knew perfectly well that Sherlock liked it.

“I do worry,” he told Sherlock wryly. “And with bloody good reason, I might add. But if you’re sure you’ll be all right, then I’ll go and have a shower now.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said again. His tone was softer this time, more genuine, and the words were accompanied by another of those shy little smiles in John’s direction. “You won’t be long.”

John wouldn’t be. He took quick showers. “That’s army training for you,” he agreed, and slid back off the bed. “Hold that thought, then. Doctoring and a cuddle when I come back.”

Sherlock answered that by putting his head down on his pillow. John hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep in the interval. Although he supposed it probably wouldn’t matter that much if he did. Sherlock didn’t need to be a particularly active participant in either the doctoring or the cuddling, and John doubted that he’d mind too much being woken up for either one.

Well, as long as he didn’t have to move, at least.

_Lazy git_ , John thought fondly, and with a last glance at Sherlock’s fully stretched out length (which he was doing on purpose, John was sure) he slipped out the door and headed for the stairs.

A quick detour to his bedroom netted him some pyjamas, and then John made straight for the shower. It only took him about five seconds under the hot water before he decided that Sherlock had been entirely right; he hadn’t realised quite how dried-sweaty and uncomfortable he’d been until he’d actually shed his clothes and started the process of getting clean.

But then, he supposed handing out two spankings and climbing up a bloody tower crane all in one day was a pretty good excuse for having raised a sweat. Especially since they were coming into summer and it had actually been pretty damn warm today. How Sherlock had climbed up that crane in his coat – his poncy coat, John thought with a grin, remembering Lestrade’s tirade afterwards – without sweating himself into a coma was quite beyond him.

He showered efficiently but thoroughly – as he’d said to Sherlock, army training – and by the time he was out, with teeth brushed and comfortably in his pyjamas, he was feeling considerably better. He was also feeling quite cheerful indeed about the prospect of returning to Sherlock’s room and cuddling him to sleep.

Their first official bedtime cuddle. Not only did it feel like good progress, a good new development, something he could _do_ for Sherlock, but it was also a pleasant prospect in its own right. It wasn’t as though John didn’t enjoy the cuddles too, after all. He might not be as desperately touch-starved as Sherlock was, but he’d been lonely too, before that fateful day he’d run into Mike Stamford and been invited back to Bart’s. He’d been lonely, and he’d felt aimless and useless and just … lost, he supposed.

Not that he hadn’t had good reason. He’d been a doctor, he’d been a soldier, and then suddenly he was neither. No purpose, no connections, it had all suddenly been gone and it had been so bloody lonely. John wasn’t good at feeling useless, especially when he hadn’t been able to see an end to it. He’d been drifting, wallowing in it, just getting more and more depressed. He’d also been starting to eye his gun with far too much intent, and he had known that wasn’t good but he hadn’t been able to help it, hadn’t been able to keep his thoughts from sliding, slowly but inexorably, in that ugly direction. He’d just been so alone.

But now – now. Now it was all different. Not only did he have a job sort of purpose (and it might be an unconventional sort of job but it was thrilling, it was fulfilling and it made him feel useful, and next to all that he didn’t give a toss if it was unconventional) but with this new arrangement between him and Sherlock, he also felt as if he had a … personal purpose. He wasn’t just the consulting detective’s assistant, wasn’t just Sherlock’s flatmate, he was a source of real support to him – both physical and emotional. He looked after Sherlock. He kept him safe. He did the little things at home like making sure Sherlock ate and slept, and he did the big things on cases like making sure Sherlock didn’t get himself killed. And that was good, that would have been enough to keep him happy, but on top of all of that, he was also giving Sherlock something he desperately needed and had gone without for far too long: affection.

Affection. Touch, comfort, a _connection_ with another person. Sherlock needed that. He needed it so badly that he had been tied up in knots about needing it, and fearing that now that he had it, it might be taken away from him (and it wouldn’t be, it _wouldn’t_ be, not so long as John had any say in the matter whatsoever). Sherlock needed it, and he was allowing John to be the one to give it to him, and God, it felt good.

It felt good. It _was_ good. It was good for both of them. Sherlock needed the connection, and John did too. Sherlock needed to be looked after, and John needed to look after him. And after everything, after getting shot and getting shipped home and feeling like he’d lost everything and all that miserable lack of purpose, John felt useful again. He was doing a good thing. He was making a difference. And he wasn’t alone anymore. He had Sherlock, and Sherlock had him.

It was _good_.

And just to make it even better, right now he even had a _cuddly_ Sherlock, _and_ a first official bedtime cuddle waiting for him. And while Sherlock might not have looked it, great gangly, bony thing that he was, he really was very nice to cuddle with. (For one thing, he was warm; it was like cuddling a six-foot hot water bottle at times. And the way all the sharp edges seemed to go off him, the way he would press himself into John’s side, snuggle so trustingly into his arms, hold onto him with such obvious _need_ – well, it was all just very nice indeed.)

Buoyed up and satisfied in a way that was starting to feel quite pleasantly familiar, John headed downstairs and for Sherlock’s bedroom with a light step.

He found Sherlock just where he’d left him, the only apparent change in his position being that now he was hugging his pillow. He was stretched out to his full length on the bed, with his toes just brushing the footboard and his face firmly buried, and John felt himself gripped by the sudden playful and rather ridiculous urge to jump on the bed and bounce him as if it was a trampoline.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said without lifting his head, in a tone of muffled and drowsy reproof. “I’m comfortable.”

John laughed, amused (and somewhat amazed) at once again having his intentions deduced. He didn’t quite jump on the bed, but he did bounce it just a little as he knelt up on it. Sherlock voiced a petulant grumble and wrapped his arms more tightly around his pillow.

“You’re still awake, then,” John said cheerfully, reaching again for the arnica cream – and then, rethinking it, for the first aid kit. “Good. In that case, it’s doctoring time. Let’s see that arm first; I want to check those burns.”

Sherlock replied with a mutter that sounded less than complimentary, but after a moment or two he did grudgingly extract his burned arm from beneath the pillow, and stuck it out dutifully in John’s general direction. Usefully, John was on the same side as the arm in question, so all he had to do was move up the bed a little to get a look at it.

A quick examination confirmed John’s earlier conclusions: that the burns weren’t serious and they ought to heal up nicely on their own, provided they were looked after. He was pleased to see that they already looked better than they had when he’d bandaged them the first time, despite all of Sherlock’s exertions that day.

They could use being kept covered, though, so John made short work of applying another pad and a layer of gauze, wrapping it securely around Sherlock’s forearm so that it would stay in place.

“All right, all done,” he said once he was finished, still briskly cheerful. “You can have that arm back and I’ll see to your bum.” He patted the small of Sherlock’s back, just above said bum. “Come on, up with you and get those down.”

The instruction earned him another grumbling protest, but no movement this time, save that of Sherlock’s arm retreating back under his pillow. John patted his back again a bit more firmly, aiming for mingled comfort and encouragement.

“I know,” he said. “But it’ll feel a lot better tomorrow if you let me put some of this on. Come on, just get them down and then you can relax.”

There was a pause. Then, to John’s further amusement, Sherlock wriggled until he could brace himself with his knees and canted his hips up off the bed, all without either lifting his head or letting go of his pillow. He didn’t say anything, but it was entirely clear what he wanted John to do.

“Lazy sod,” John said with a chuckle, although his tone was so fond that it might as well have been an endearment.

And of course he obliged the silent request; he _was_ taking special care of Sherlock tonight, after all. He knelt up and leaned over so that he could reach around Sherlock’s waist, then hooked his fingers into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and began, very gently, to ease them down. He took care not to rub over Sherlock’s sore bottom (or catch him in the front, for that matter) and Sherlock made an appreciative noise before flopping back down – dramatically, as if exhausted – once his trousers hit mid-thigh.

John snorted, but worked them the rest of the way down to his knees without comment. He pushed Sherlock’s t-shirt up out of the way, baring the target area completely, then settled down cross-legged beside him and cast a practiced eye over the now exposed skin.

He was pleased to see that, once again, there didn’t appear to be any visible bruising. He’d been careful, but three spankings in two days would still have been quite a pounding, even with John spanking for sting rather than with any real force. And they had left their mark, even so; Sherlock’s bottom and upper thighs carried a definite rosy tinge, the splotches of colour standing out all the more brightly on Sherlock’s pale skin. Bruises, no, but John was quite sure that Sherlock was still feeling tender.

He leaned forward to examine more closely, doctor’s instincts kicking in, and ghosted his fingertips lightly over the most colourful spots, taking care to be as gentle as possible. Despite his efforts, Sherlock tensed at his touch and then shivered.

“Sorry,” John said automatically. And then, with more sympathy: “Sore?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, after a moment. He didn’t sound petulant this time, though, John thought – just solemn and hushed.

“I’ll be very gentle,” he promised, hoping Sherlock would be reassured. “This stuff really does help; you’ll feel much better tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, in that same low tone. He shivered again as John popped the cap off the arnica cream, making John glance up in automatic concern.

“Want your blanket?”

“No.”

Again, the single word was soft and solemn, the pensive note in Sherlock’s voice audible even through the muffling effect of his pillow. It was actually making John a bit curious now, and he rather wished he could see Sherlock’s face.

But Sherlock had made it clear that he had absolutely no inclination to move, and John wasn’t about to make him just to indulge his curiosity. He double checked on the blanket issue instead. “Sure?”

“I’m not cold,” Sherlock murmured. A beat, and then his tone shifted abruptly, becoming brisker and mildly exasperated. “It’s practically summer.”

“It’s England,” John retorted wryly. But Sherlock was right, of course, and it really had been decently warm today – not so much now, but it still wasn’t exactly cold. And it wasn’t as though Sherlock wouldn’t be getting into bed as soon as John was finished doctoring him. He could certainly do without his blanket for ten minutes or so without catching his death.

John was prepared to admit that after everything that had happened today, he was, perhaps, still feeling a little overprotective.

With that in mind, he let the issue of the blanket go. He scooped out a good fingerful of the cream and put a steadying hand in the small of Sherlock’s back, feeling another little tremor run through him at the touch. “Okay,” he soothed. “Here we go.”

He began, very gently, to smooth the cream over Sherlock’s bottom, starting with the spots that looked like they needed it the most (which unsurprisingly were centred mainly around Sherlock’s sit spots). Sherlock tensed again at the initial contact, but relaxed almost at once, with another soft sigh of appreciation.

Encouraged, John let his fingers begin to move in wider circles, taking in more of the affected area even as he kept his touch light. This earned him first a pleased sounding hum, and then a minute shift of Sherlock’s hips, as he pressed up just a little into John’s hand. Apparently, John thought, he was being quite gentle enough to make the ministrations a relief rather than an ordeal.

Doctor’s hands, he told himself with just a hint of smugness, and cheerfully kept going.

He made sure to tend to the whole punished area, concentrating on the spots that looked the most sore, but taking care to rub the cream all over Sherlock’s bottom and down the backs of his thighs, soothing all of the skin that he had visited earlier with the hairbrush. And since Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it, he took his time over it, going back twice for another fingerful of arnica cream and turning the whole thing into a kind of very gentle massage. He was taking special care of Sherlock tonight, after all, and Sherlock did seem to find this comforting. John thought he might as well make it the best post-punishment doctoring that he could, before they moved on to Sherlock’s first official bedtime cuddle.

Sherlock appeared to appreciate it – at least as far as John could tell without being able to see his face. He certainly sounded like he appreciated it, if his contented little sighs were any indication. And the way he’d practically melted into the bed (except for his hips, which kept pressing up into John’s touch as if he couldn’t quite help himself) seemed to indicate that John’s ministrations were definitely meeting with his approval.

In fact, John was pretty well convinced that if Sherlock could actually purr, he’d be rumbling like a two-stroke motor.

He finally left off so as not to go through all the damn arnica cream (and if Sherlock kept on like this they’d need to start buying it in bulk somehow, honestly) and when Sherlock’s sighs and little shifts became fewer and further between, making John suspect that he was on the verge of falling asleep. Which meant, he decided, that it was probably time to get Sherlock into bed rather than on top of it, so that he could have his cuddle and then hopefully get a decent night’s sleep. Sherlock might have denied needing it, just as he tended to deny rather a lot of his body’s basic needs, but after the week he’d just had, John was quite convinced that a good night’s sleep was the very minimum of what was required.

Several would be better. And with any luck (and a good amount of bedtime cuddles as added incentive) he might even be able to convince Sherlock to comply.

He recapped the arnica cream and reached over to slide it back onto Sherlock’s bedside table, along with the first aid kit. Sherlock hadn’t moved (hadn’t even twitched a muscle, as far as John could tell) so John first rubbed the small of his back, then patted in gentle enquiry.

“Still awake in there?” he asked fondly – ‘in there’ referring to the fact that Sherlock still had his face buried in his pillow. If it hadn’t been such a familiar sight, John would have been marvelling that Sherlock hadn’t managed to suffocate himself.

Sherlock’s response was a very soft and very sleepy murmur, but it was enough to tell John that he wasn’t quite asleep, not yet. Certainly awake enough for a bedtime cuddle, at any rate. Not that John would have been deterred even if Sherlock had been asleep; he’d promised Sherlock a bedtime cuddle, and by God, Sherlock was getting a bedtime cuddle, even if John had to spoon around his unconscious body to do it.

Fortunately, it didn’t seem as though that would be necessary.

He patted Sherlock’s back again, still gentle but with just a little more emphasis. “Come on, then, you,” he encouraged. “Time for bed. Get those back up and let’s get you under the covers.”

He expected Sherlock to grumble about having to move, but it seemed Sherlock was now too drowsy to offer even a token complaint, because he didn’t even bother to murmur this time. In fact his only acknowledgement of John’s urging was to once again wriggle just enough so that he could brace with his knees and lift his hips, in a clear request for John to do all the necessary work for him.

John rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help laughing. “You are a lazy sod,” he told Sherlock with absolutely no severity at all.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but kept his hips raised expectantly. John chuckled again and then – because of course he was going to, wasn’t he – set about inching Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms back up.

Once that was done, and Sherlock had collapsed theatrically back down onto the bed, John slid off on the other side, and turned the covers down as much as he could with Sherlock lying on top of them.

“Come on, into bed,” he said. “Mrs Hudson was right; you need a good night’s sleep.”

This time he did get a reply; Sherlock turned his face very slightly out of the pillow and mumbled something in a vaguely questioning tone, which John could just make out as having included the word ‘cuddle’.

It was the fact that his tone was _questioning_ that went straight to John’s heart, and he was instantly offering reassurance, even without knowing exactly what Sherlock had said.

“Of course you’re getting a cuddle,” he said firmly. “Just as soon as you get into bed. Come on, in you get. I know you don’t want to move but you’re going to have to, just a bit.”

Or at least he was unless his talents extended to being able to teleport through bedcovers. And while Sherlock was certainly exceptional, John was pretty sure that one was probably beyond him.

It seemed Sherlock agreed, because he made no attempt at teleporting. Nor did he bother to protest, although whether that was because he was still too sleepy or the prospect of a cuddle was enough incentive to keep him quiet, John wasn’t sure. Either way, though, he was treated to a rather different display of Sherlock’s abilities, as he proceeded to get under the covers while, apparently, trying to move as little as humanly possible.

The process actually involved so much wriggling that John was quite sure it would have been easier if Sherlock had just sat up and moved, but Sherlock was evidently determined to be stubborn about it. He started by squirming himself sideways, until he was on the part of the bed where John had turned the covers down, and then there was an interval of him inching up the bed and shoving at the covers with his feet, until he was finally able to worm his way underneath them. Then, having got under, he made a show of squirming back over to where he’d been, which seemed to be his preferred side of the bed.

And all of that, John marvelled with mild hilarity, without taking his face out of his pillow.

It had been ridiculous, really. It had been ridiculous to watch, certainly. It had also been – and there was no other way to describe it – absurdly cute.

Despite the fact that no one, save perhaps Mrs Hudson, would believe it if he’d told them, John found he was getting more and more accustomed to Sherlock being cute.

Although he could quite understand why people wouldn’t believe it if he’d told them. If you only knew Sherlock superficially – which was practically everyone who did know him, except for John, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and perhaps Lestrade – then ‘cute’ was really, really not a word that would spring to mind in association with him. Brilliant, yes. Arrogant, definitely yes. Obnoxious, absolutely. Perhaps, if Sherlock was making a particular effort and was having a good day, he might qualify as charming (which to be fair had been one of John’s first descriptors of him, along with ‘arrogant’, ‘rude’ and ‘mad’.)

But cute? No. If John hadn’t been witnessing it on a regular basis these days, he doubted he’d believe it either.

He wasn’t given any more time to stand around and think about it, though. Sherlock had apparently got over his insecurity again for the moment, and one hand emerged from beneath his pillow to thump the free side of the bed impatiently, in a clear message that John should stop dithering and come and give him his cuddle.

John couldn’t help laughing, because right now he was in such a good mood that Sherlock’s high-handedness (literally, in this case) was just entertaining.

“All right, I’m coming,” he said indulgently. He paused to turn Sherlock’s bedside lamp on and the overhead light off, a delay which earned him another less than patient thump of Sherlock’s outstretched hand. But with that last chore done, he finally slid in under the covers himself, settling comfortably back against the pillows.

He had half expected Sherlock to be on him like a limpet as soon as his back hit the mattress, but for all his impatience Sherlock seemed to have suddenly got shy again. Now that John was right there beside him, he made no move to actually come and get the cuddle he was obviously so set on.

“Come on,” John coaxed lightly, after a few moments passed and Sherlock still didn’t move. “It’s cuddle time, so come out of that pillow before you suffocate.”

He patted the narrow space between them expectantly, and with just a hint of teasing mimicry of Sherlock’s impatient thumping. Sherlock apparently got the reference, because he gave an amused sounding little huff before finally, and somewhat hesitantly, lifting his head from his pillow.

He kept his gaze lowered – definitely shy again, then – but scooted readily across the small distance to John’s side. John opened an arm to welcome him in, and Sherlock snuggled in underneath it, dropping his head onto the offered shoulder and then wriggling until the full length of him (or most of it, at least) was pressed firmly up against John’s side. His free arm looped around John’s waist, and John smiled to himself fondly as he felt Sherlock’s fingers close over a fold of his pyjama top. Not clinging, not the way he did when he was upset, but just holding on, as if for extra comfort.

John reciprocated by closing his arm around Sherlock’s narrow frame and letting his other hand shift to the matching cuddle time position, fingers cupping the back of Sherlock’s head and twining into his curls. Adorably, Sherlock seemed to instantly melt under the gentle touch, exhaling in a soft sigh of pleasure and trying to squirm even closer.

“That’s it,” John murmured. “That’s more like it.” His voice had done the same thing as his hands, dropping automatically into his low, soothing cuddle time tones. “You just relax now. That’s my good Sherlock.”

The endearment netted him another pleased little sigh, accompanied this time by an affectionate nuzzle of Sherlock’s curly head. Touched, John was only too happy to say it again, with even more emphasis.

“You are my good Sherlock,” he said – and yes, his tone was so fond it was definitely bordering on soppy. He couldn’t have cared less. “And you’re my good Sherlock all the time. Right?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied dreamily. And then, sounding like it was coming with some considerable effort: “Right.”

“Right,” John repeated. As reassurance along a different tack, since Sherlock seemed to be fading fast, he went on, “And this is what we’re doing now. Bedtime cuddles, so that you can fall asleep. And cuddles any other time you want them, too,” he added for good measure. “Okay?”

Sherlock was already about as close to John as it was possible to get, but as an answer he tried to wedge himself a bit closer still, tucking his head more comfortably down against John’s shoulder. “Hmm,” he said again, and then backed that up with a confirming, “Mmm-hmm.”

Actual words were apparently off the table now, although John was hardly surprised. Sherlock was already warm and relaxed against his side, his arm draped limply across John’s middle, and John strongly suspected that he was on the verge of going out like a light. Which was, of course, exactly what he needed, so John certainly wasn’t about to discourage it. And it really was a very pleasant feeling to have Sherlock so readily, so easily, so _trustingly_ falling asleep in his arms.

“Okay,” he said, back to murmuring. “Okay then.” He stroked Sherlock’s hair, eliciting another low, sleepy hum of pleasure. “You go to sleep now,” he added, although he suspected Sherlock hardly needed telling. “You’ll feel much better in the morning.”

This time he didn’t even get an obligatory ‘hmm’. Sherlock just rubbed his cheek briefly against John’s shoulder, tucked his chin in a little further as if he was reflexively trying to curl up, and within moments had begun to breathe in slow, deep, regular pulls. Asleep, John thought in fond bemusement, just like that.

So much for Sherlock the insomniac. Turned out all he’d needed was a good cuddle at bedtime to help him along.

Well, he’d certainly be getting them from now on. Cases aside, there’d be no more sleepless nights for Mr Sherlock Holmes, not if John had anything to say about it (which as per their agreement, he most certainly did).

And it certainly seemed as though Sherlock was well sorted for _this_ night. He’d been cared for and doctored and cuddled and now he was safely off to sleep, which as far as John was concerned was exactly what he needed. With any luck, he might even stay asleep until at least a moderately sensible hour in the morning. He ought to be tired enough for it, after the week he’d just had.

All of which meant, John thought wryly, that really his only remaining problem right now was going to be summoning up the necessary willpower to extract himself from Sherlock’s bed and get upstairs to his own.

He couldn’t help making a face at the thought, although he knew he’d have to do it. Or at least he should do it. Or at least he supposed he should do it. That had been his plan all along, although he had to admit it had been a rather nebulous plan. He’d been more focused – all right, pretty much solely focused – on Sherlock, and on getting Sherlock safely into bed and cuddled off to sleep. He hadn’t really thought much beyond that, but on some level he’d just assumed that after Sherlock was asleep, somehow, he’d end up back upstairs.

What he hadn’t quite considered was the rather unpleasant prospect of being warm and comfortable and wrapped up in a cuddly Sherlock, and then having to _move_.

But that was all right. That was fine. He’d certainly done much harder and more unpleasant things than that. And he really should do it. They’d agreed on bedtime cuddles, not on John spending the night in Sherlock’s bed.

Although … he _had_ spent the night there before. And now that he thought of it, he supposed he had also extended the invitation for Sherlock to spend the night in _his_ bed if he wanted to, if he came in for a cuddle after John had already gone upstairs. So perhaps there might, just maybe, have been the implication of reciprocity there …?

Might. Maybe. Perhaps. And all of them, John told himself sternly, were excuses just because he was tired and comfortable enough that he didn’t feel like getting up again. He wasn’t _sure_ , and so the safer option really was to leave Sherlock to sleep and go upstairs to his own bed. He definitely didn’t want to do anything that might seem like a breach of trust, especially when he knew Sherlock was still feeling vulnerable. And even if Sherlock had still been awake to ask, John wouldn’t have wanted to push.

Yes. It really was the safer option. And it was, after all, what he’d been planning to do all along, even if it had been a barely formed and nebulous plan.

All right, then. That was what he’d do. Sherlock seemed to be well out, but John would give it another ten minutes just to make sure he really was properly asleep, and then he’d leave him to it. It wasn’t like another ten minutes of being warm and comfortable and wrapped up in a cuddly Sherlock was going to be a hardship, after all. He’d just have to watch himself and make sure he didn’t fall asleep too. Although fortunately, a career as both a doctor and a soldier meant that not only was he a light sleeper, he was also very practiced in making himself stay awake even when he really didn’t want to.

It was fortunate, too, because when the ten minutes were up he really _didn’t_ want to. Sherlock was a warm, pliant weight against his side, quiet and still except for his deep, even breathing, and John in turn was cosy and comfortable and sleepy and entirely disinclined to go anywhere.

He tried to blink himself into alertness, telling himself firmly that if he was going to go, he really ought to go now. The idea of just another five minutes was hugely tempting, but John knew where that was likely to lead – to another five minutes after that, and then another and another until his willpower finally gave out and he was lulled to sleep in spite of himself. For that matter, he was probably halfway there already, with Sherlock’s warmth acting like a snuggly soporific.

No, he should go. Right now, before he really did fall asleep. Not to mention, if he did stay much longer, Sherlock might well start wrapping limbs around him in earnest, which would only make the whole process that much more difficult.

Thus resolved, albeit reluctantly, John carefully extended the arm that Sherlock was snuggled under and then – when Sherlock didn’t stir – began to very cautiously slide sideways. He was pretty sure Sherlock was well asleep now; he hadn’t even moved except to breathe. But just in case, John was going to take as much care as possible not to wake him.

However, he had barely slid an inch when the long arm that was draped over his waist suddenly tightened, and fingers that had been limp just a moment before curled determinedly back around his pyjama top. John almost jumped when Sherlock’s other hand wormed in swiftly from underneath, snatching likewise at the waistband of his bottoms. It missed and got a handful of fabric a bit lower instead, but Sherlock apparently decided that would do, because he held onto it doggedly.

“Stay,” Sherlock said quietly. And then, even softer: “Please.”

He sounded, John thought, rather suspiciously awake for someone who had seemed to be out for the count just moments ago. But John had no chance to remark on this miraculously speedy revival before Sherlock’s murmured ‘please’ melted him instantly.

He still suspected Sherlockian manipulation – although to be fair, it was possible that Sherlock had just come awake particularly quickly. But even if it was manipulation, in the face of that ‘please’, right now John honestly didn’t care. Yes, come tomorrow he probably ought to have a word with Sherlock about it just in case, if only to make sure he knew that if he wanted John to stay with him he could simply ask – but not right now. Right now, he was looking after Sherlock, and Sherlock _had_ asked him to stay and John was hardly about to refuse him.

Besides, he added to himself wryly, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t _wanted_ to stay. He was still very comfortable and entirely disinclined to move, and so if Sherlock wanted him to stay – well, that was going to make both of them happy, wasn’t it?

Yes, he thought, satisfied with his conclusions. Any discussions could wait until tomorrow. For now, he was going to sleep.

Sherlock was still holding onto him with both hands, and John patted the one he could reach in fond reassurance. “I’m staying,” he told Sherlock soothingly. “Just let me get the light.”

He waited, and after a moment he felt Sherlock’s grip on him loosen, although cautiously, almost as if he was afraid John might change his mind if he let go. Just in case Sherlock really was entertaining thoughts along those lines, John made quick work of turning the bedside lamp off and then rolling back into the centre of the bed.

“I’m staying,” he said again, more firmly this time. “Now come here.”

He’d intended to tug on Sherlock’s arm for emphasis, but it wasn’t necessary; Sherlock needed no further urging and had already begun the process of grafting himself back to John’s side. There was a brief interval of wriggling as he arranged himself to his satisfaction, but in a very short time he was right back where he’d been before, cuddled up close with his head comfortably pillowed on John’s shoulder. His free arm had likewise found its way back around John’s waist, his fingers curling lightly but detectably into a convenient fold of pyjama top.

“Hmm,” he murmured, and to John’s amusement he was right back to sounding sleepy as if nothing had happened. He gave a contented sigh and snuggled in a little closer, then added an equally drowsy, “Goodnight.”

John still had no idea if the whole thing had been staged or if Sherlock really was just dropping in and out of sleepiness like a somnolent yo-yo. Either way, though, he wasn’t going to tackle it now. He was tired and Sherlock was tired, and he was more than ready for both of them to get some sleep.

“Goodnight,” he replied instead, half stifling a yawn, and then tilted his chin down so that he could drop a quick, affectionate kiss into Sherlock’s curly hair. “Sleep well.”

There was no reply from Sherlock, who had, just like that, begun to breathe once more in the slow, even rhythm of sleep. John _still_ didn’t have a clue if he was faking it or not.

But even if he was, he’d be asleep soon enough. Sherlock was by no means immune to the sedative effect of being warm and cuddled; John had seen that for himself on numerous occasions, and he fully intended to make sure Sherlock was warm and cuddled the whole damn night through. If Sherlock _was_ still awake, then John gave it ten minutes at the absolute most.

Satisfied, again, with his conclusions and his plan (such as it was), John relaxed back onto the pillows and let his eyes close. Soothed by Sherlock’s warmth and cuddly proximity – and helped along by his very comfortable bed – he was fast asleep in considerably less than ten minutes.

 


End file.
